Next morning Joan awaited Kells, as was her custom, but he did not appear. This was the third time in a week that he had forgotten or avoided her or had been prevented from seeing her. Joan was glad, yet the fact was not reassuring. The issue for Kells was growing from trouble to disaster.
Early in the afternoon she heard Kells returning from camp. He had men with him. They conversed in low, earnest tones. Joan was about to spy up on them when Kells's step approached her door. He rapped and spoke:
“Put on Dandy Dale's suit and mask, and come out here,” he said.
The tone of his voice as much as the content of his words startled Joan so that she did not at once reply.
“Do you hear?” he called, sharply.
“Yes,” replied Joan.
Then he went back to his men, and the low, earnest conversation was renewed.
Reluctantly Joan took down Dandy Dale's things from the pegs, and with a recurring shame she divested herself of part of her clothes and donned the suit and boots and mask and gun. Her spirit rose, however, at the thought that this would be a disguise calculated to aid her in the escape with Cleve. But why had Kells ordered the change? Was he in danger and did he mean to flee from Alder Creek? Joan found the speculation a relief from that haunting, persistent thought of Jim Cleve and Gulden. She was eager to learn, still she hesitated at the door. It was just as hard as ever to face those men.
But it must be, so with a wrench she stepped out boldly.
Kells looked worn and gray. He had not slept. But his face did not wear the shade she had come to associate with his gambling and drinking. Six other men were present, and Joan noted coats and gloves and weapons and spurs. Kells turned to address her. His face lighted fleetingly.
“I want you to be ready to ride any minute,” he said.
“Why?” asked Joan.
“We may HAVE to, that's all,” he replied.
His men, usually so keen when they had a chance to ogle Joan, now scarcely gave her a glance. They were a dark, grim group, with hard eyes and tight lips. Handy Oliver was speaking.
“I tell you, Gulden swore he seen Creede—on the road—in the lamplight—last night AFTER Jim Cleve got here.”
“Gulden must have been mistaken,” declared Kells, impatiently.
“He ain't the kind to make mistakes,” replied Oliver.
“Gul's seen Creede's ghost, thet's what,” suggested Blicky, uneasily. “I've seen a few in my time.”
Some of the bandits nodded gloomily.
“Aw!” burst out Red Pearce. “Gulden never seen a ghost in his life. If he seen Creede he's seen him ALIVE!”
“Shore you're right, Red,” agreed Jesse Smith.
“But, men—Cleve brought in Creede's belt—and we've divided the gold,” said Kells. “You all know Creede would have to be dead before that belt could be unbuckled from him. There's a mistake.”
“Boss, it's my idee thet Gul is only makin' more trouble,” put in Bate Wood. “I seen him less than an hour ago. I was the first one Gul talked to. An' he knew Jim Cleve did for Creede. How'd he know? Thet was supposed to be a secret. What's more, Gul told me Cleve was on the job to kill him. How'd he ever find thet out?... Sure as God made little apples Cleve never told him!”
Kells's face grew livid and his whole body vibrated. “Maybe one of Gulden's gang was outside, listening when we planned Cleve's job,” he suggested. But his look belied his hope.
“Naw! There's a nigger in the wood-pile, you can gamble on thet,” blurted out the sixth bandit, a lean faced, bold-eye, blond-mustached fellow whose name Joan had never heard.
“I won't believe it,” replied Kells, doggedly. “And you, Budd, you're accusing somebody present of treachery—or else Cleve. He's the only one not here who knew.”
“Wal, I always said thet youngster was slick,” replied Budd.
“Will you accuse him to his face?”
“I shore will. Glad of the chance.”
“Then you're drunk or just a fool.”
“Thet so?”
“Yes, that's so,” flashed Kells. “You don't know Cleve. He'll kill you. He's lightning with a gun. Do you suppose I'd set him on Gulden's trail if I wasn't sure? Why I wouldn't care to—”
“Here comes Cleve,” interrupted Pearce, sharply.
Rapid footsteps sounded without. Then Joan saw Jim Cleve darken the doorway. He looked keen and bold. Upon sight of Joan in her changed attire he gave a slight start.
“Budd, here's Cleve,” called out Red Pearce, mockingly. “Now, say it to his face!”
In the silence that ensued Pearce's spirit dominated the moment with its cunning, hate, and violence. But Kells savagely leaped in front of the men, still master of the situation.
“Red, what's got into you?” he hissed. “You're cross-grained lately. You're sore. Any more of this and I'll swear you're a disorganizer.... Now, Budd, you keep your mouth shut. And you, Cleve, you pay no heed to Budd if he does gab.... We're in bad and all the men have chips on their shoulders. We've got to stop fighting among ourselves.”
“Wal, boss, there's a power of sense in a good example,” dryly remarked Bate Wood. His remark calmed Kells and eased the situation.
“Jim, did you meet Gulden?” queried Kells, eagerly.
“Can't find him anywhere,” replied Cleve. “I've loafed in the saloons and gambling-hells where he hangs out. But he didn't show up. He's in camp. I know that for a fact. He's laying low for some reason.”
